IT 

MIDSUMMER  IN 
WHITTIER'S  COUNTRY 


ETHEL  ARMES 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ARMES,  Ethel  (Marie),  author;  B.  Washing- . 
ton,  B.C.;  d.  Col.  George  Augustus  A.  (U.S.A.) 
and  Lucy  Hamilton  (Kerr)  A.;  ed.  pvt.  schs. 
and  George  Washington  U.,  1  yr.  Reporter, 
Chicago  Chronicle,  and  spl.  feature  writer  for 
other  papers,  1899-1900;  on  staff  Washington 
Post,  1900-3;  syndicate  newspaper  and  mag. 
work,  Birmingham,  Ala.,  1903-4;  on  staff  Bir- 
mingham Age-Herald,  1905-6:  asso.  editor  Ad- 
vance Mag.,  Birmingham,  1906;  studied  mineral 
resources  and  history  of  mineral  region  of 
Ala.,  for  Birmingham  Chamber  of  Commerce, 
1907-10;  employed  by  Ala.  Coal  Operators'  Assn. 
to  investigate  arid  write  on  sociol.  problems 
and  conditions  of  Ala.  mineral  regions,  1911;  on 
staff  Birmingham  News,  conducting  campaigns 
for  sociol.  betterment,  1912 — ;  correspondent 
The  Survey.  Clubs:  Boston  Authors,  Birming- 
ham  Press,  Birmingham  Social  Workers,  Bir- 
mingham  Country.  Mem.  Southern  Sociol.  Con- 
gress, Nat.  Child  Labor  Com.,  Am.  Assn.  for 
Labor  Legislation,  Ala.  Equal  Suffrage  Assn. 
Author:  Midsummer  In  Whittier's  Country, 
1909;  The  Story  of  Coal  and  Iron  in  Alabama, 
1910.  Home:  1410  St.  Charles  St.,  Birmingham, 
Alabama. 


MIDSUMMER  IN 
WHITTIER'S  COUNTRY 


MIDSUMMER  IN 
WHITTIER'S  COUNTRY 

A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF 
SANDWICH  CENTER 


ETHEL  ARMES 

Author  of 

The  Stery  of  Coal  and  Iron 
in  ^Alabama 


WITH  THE  AUTHOR'S 
OWN  SKETCHES 


PRINTED  AT 

THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS  OF 

SEWANEE  TENNESSEE 

M  DCC  C  CX 


Copyright,  1910 
By  ETHEL  ARMES 

All  rigbti  restrvtd 


TO 

MY  COMRADES  OF  THE  HILLS 
ALICE  WIGGIN 

AND 

H.  P.  J. 


4 

N' 

^ 


550004 


CONTENTS 

I.    From  the  Little  Path  on  the  Apple  Hill. 

II.    In  the  Red  Sunset,  Caravans  of  the  Old 
Days  Pass. 

III.  The  Little  People  of  the  Village. 

IV.  "/  Lean  my  Heart  Against  the  Day." 
V.   A  Diary  of  the  Harvest  Month. 

VI.    Indian  Legends  Float  in  the  Breezes. 
I  .    Ossipee. 
2.   Asquam. 
3  .    Chocorua. 


"  It  is  as  if  the  pine  trees  called  me 

From  ceiled  room  and  silent  books, 
To  see  the  dance  of  woodland  shadows, 
And  hear  the  song  of  April  brooks  /  " 


***          *    *    *          *    *    *     *    * 
**  *  *** 

*  * 


FOREWORD 


little  study  of  Sandwich 
Center,  tells  quite  simply  the 
brief  and  almost  uneventful 
annals  of  the  town  from  its 
waking  in  the  reign  of  George 
III,  throughout  its  term  of 
aftive  service  in  behalf  of  the 
Colonies,  to  its  sleeping  time  to-day.  It  also 
gives  quick  glimpses  of  a  few  of  the  little 
people  and  places  of  delight  in  and  around 
the  village,  and  relates  the  Indian  legends 
and  traditions  told  round  and  about  there: 
the  myths  of  Ossipee,  of  Lake  Asquam  and 
Mount  Chocorua. 

Lines  of  Whittier's  verse  run  throughout 
the  pages,  for  they  are  as  much  a  part  of  the 
New  Hampshire  country  as  the  White  Hills 
themselves,  and  sweet  and  full  of  tenderness. 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier  saw,  indeed,  vision 


12  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER  S  COUNTRY 

of  the  Spirit  of  Poetry  standing  with  white 
and  delicate  hands  at  the  gateway  of  the 
mountains,  and  heard  speech  of  the  ancient 
Indian  world. 

Inasmuch  as  it  was  given  to  him — so  kind 
and  gentle  of  heart  —  to  impart  to  succeeding 
generations  this  voice  that  he  heard,  so  he 
has  done.  If  he  might  not  be  Keats  for  the 
praying,  at  least  he  has  drunk  of  fountains  of 
his  own  country,  and  it  is  becoming  more 
and  more  clear  to  those  intimate  with  the 
White  Mountain  land,  that  Whittier  has 
spoken  true.  "I  lean  my  heart  against  the 
day  !"  he  sings,  and,  in  verse  all  too  little 
read,  breath  of  which  is  given  in  these 
pages,  he  tells  of  those  things  daily  about 
him  and  much  loved  by  him.  Among 
the  Hills,  Telling  the  Bees,  The  Vanisbers, 
Voyage  of  the  Jettie,  Bridal  of  Pennacook, 
The  Common  Question,  Mountain  Pic- 
tures, Mogg  Megone,  The  Lakeside,  The 
Hill-Top,  Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis, — 
all  these  belong  as  much,  indeed,  as  does 
Snowbound,  to  New  England  life  and  letters. 

The  tiny  sketches  given  here  were  done 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  IJ 

out  under  the  open  sky  on  the  hill-tops,  in 
apple  orchards  by  winding  roads  and  in  long 
grasses  of  the  fields,  so  that  in  those  places 
where  the  student's  touch  has  failed,  artist 
charm  may  be  dreamed  into  them  by  whoso- 
ever knows  these  sweet  mountain  meadows 
that  were  the  Quaker  poet's  golden  fields; 
and  likewise,  it  is  prayed,  into  the  book. 


ETHEL  ARMES. 


Birmingham,  Alabama. 


********************* 

*  *  *       *  *  *      *****      ***      *** 
**  *  ***  *  ** 

*  *  * 

I. 

FROM  THE  LITTLE  PATH  ON 
THE  APPLE  HILL 

"  /  would  I  were  a  painter  for  the 
sake  of  a  sweet  picture" 

'OT  far  up  along  the  road  to 
Ossipee,  just  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  beyond  the  village,  there 
is  a  little  hill  where  rocks  and 
apples  grow.  A  stone  wall, 
put  up  in  the  time  of  George 
III,  shuts  out  a  mischievous 
tangle  of  blackberry  briars,  and  helps  support 
the  heavily  burdened  arms  of  one  of  the 
oldest  of  the  trees,  some  of  whose  rosy 
apples  hang  right  over  a  tiny  gate  going  into 
the  hill.  A  few  other  apples  have  tumbled 
down  among  tall  grasses,  which  flirt  in  the 
wind  with  dashing  groups  of  black-eyed 


1 6  MIDSUMMER   IN  WHITTIER's   COUNTRY 

daisies  —  there,  in  the  very  face  of  the  little 
path  —  and  such  a  tattle-tale  of  a  path!  Off 
it  runs  to  each  one  of  the  ancient  apple  trees, 
winks  naughtily  in  the  shadows,  then  hides 
in  the  spears  of  the  redtop  grass,  away  from 
the  listening  leaves.  Pretty  soon,  shaking 
itself  free  from  the  field  flowers  and  the  long 
reaches  of  the  circling  trees,  it  climbs  up  the 
steep  side  of  the  hill,  shudders  by  some  big 
savage  rocks  that  stretch  out  like  an  ogre's 
arms  to  grab  it,  and  then  —  suddenly  — 
before  it  is  aware,  is  way  up  high  on  the 
tiptop  of  the  little  hill,  all  by  itself,  looking 
out  upon  the  whole  wide  world  alone! 

Through  Sandwich  Notch  the  west-wind  sang 

Good  morrow  to  the  cotter; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 

Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 
Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 

His  grim  armorial  bearing. 

—  From  Among  the  Hilli. 

From  this  little  path  on  the  Apple  Hill,  the 
small  white  houses  of  the  village  appear 
like  snow  flakes.  Some  of  them  reach  out 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  IJ 

in  long,  glistening  lines, —  they  are  white 
apron  strings  trying  to  hold  back  the  runa- 
way roads,  for  the  little  village  is  the  mother- 
place  of  an  hundred  highland  roads,  those 
truant  chieftains  of  the  New  Hampshire 
Hills.  Miles  and  miles  through  the  purple 
mountains,  by  the  white  lake  shores,  they 
wind, —  under  gleaming  birch  belts,  by 
dusky  maple  groves,  along  deep  intervales 
where  the  elms  and  willows  droop,  and 
where  sing  the  sirens  of  the  pines.  Some- 
times they  stop  for  breath  in  the  lowlands 
where  the  sun  burns  hot,  and,  out  of  sight 
of  their  mother's  eyes,  they  make  golden 
love  to  the  flowers  there.  Graceful  forms  of 
ferns  lean  over  them;  fragrant  elder  bushes 
hurry  forth  their  rare  white  lace  work;  fading 
tones  of  the  flowers  of  milkweed  and  iron- 
rust  cast  their  glances  as  falling  eye-lashes; 
pale  celandine  trails  her  bridal  veil  before 
them  —  daisies,  buttercups,  rich  golden-rod — 
all  the  maiden  flowers  of  midsummer  time, 
tiptoe  close  to  the  enchanters — with  no  mod- 
esty whatever!  But  on  go  the  flying  chief- 
tains, ferns  and  flowers  clinging  to  their  kilts ! 
They  round  stone  walls  and  fences  made  of 
roots  of  giant  old  pines,  hurry  by  deserted 


I  8  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

farms  and  abandoned  mills,  up  and  down, 
over  streams,  by  long  lanes  and  bridle  paths; 
on  and  on,  rising  and  falling,  past  cornfields 
and  orchards  in  the  sky,  until,  like  the  little 
path  on  the  road  to  Ossipee,  they  climb 
right  up  into  the  clouds,  and  are  lost  forever- 
more! 

The  only  sound  from  the  village  is  a 
tinkle  of  cow-bells  in  the  rock  pasture  near 
the  school  house;  for  even  in  midsummer, 
with  all  the  strangers  here,  Sandwich  Center 
is  quiet  as  a  snow-fall.  Tall  spires  of  the 
little  white  churches,  gray  shingled  roofs, 
red  brick  chimneys  and  green  blinds  of  the 
snowy  houses,  their  snug  barns  and  wood 
shelters,  wells,  orchards,  and  herb  gardens 
framed  by  the  stone  walls,  curve  in  and  out 
of  the  trees  in  a  play  of  fresh,  bright  color. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed  o'errun, 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

— From  filling  the  Ben. 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  19 

The  roads  are  silent  as  forest  trails. 
Across  from  the  postoffice  is  Dorr's  hotel 
with  its  wide  sheltered  porches.  Down  the 
road  a  piece  is  Maybelle's  house  and  the 
little  white  home  of  the  twins,  Ruth  and 
Dorris,  the  minister's  children.  Marston's 
and  Dr.  White's  are  further  on,  and  then 
beyond  four  willow  trees  is  the  house  where 
Mildred  lives.  The  new  school  is  but  a 
stone's  throw  off.  The  old  school  was 
yonder  down  by  Little  Pond,  there  where 
Master  Ladd,  the  lame  teacher,  taught  for 
forty  years.  Mildred's  father  and  her  uncle 
used  to  draw  him  to  school  every  day  in  a 
sled,  and  sometimes  the  other  pupils  helped. 
Near  the  store  on  Main  street  is  Maybelle's 
favorite  haunt,  the  shop  of  the  harness-maker 
and  clock-mender.  At  the  point  of  the  road 
near  the  Spokesfield  Pines  is  the  Burleigh 
House,  the  old  Sandwich  Inn,  and  farther 
up,  Diamond  Ledge  House  and  Miss  Fos- 
ter's, going  by  Perry's  studio  on  the  way. 

In  the  other  direction  towards  Four  Cor- 
ners, the  old  blacksmith  shop  and  the  saw- 
mill are  passed  on  the  right,  then  the  marsh, 
and  Wentworth's  Pines  and  the  lonely  cabin 
of  the  strange  old  man  of  Sandwich,  on  the 


2O  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER  S  COUNTRY 

left,  while  at  the  very  top  of  the  hill  are  the 
Wentworth  manor  house  and  Adam's  place 
where  a  massive  stone  wall  extends  for  miles 
like  some  old  Roman  fortification. 

All  through  this  region  of  North  country 
the  call  of  the  Indian  is  mingled  with  the 
voice  of  England's  reign.  Side  by  side  on 
the  guiding  stones,  with  the  musical  Indian 
names,  run  the  quaint  letters  of  Tarn- 
worth  Town,  North  Conway,  Meredith, 
Sandwich,  South  Chatham  and  Moultonboro. 

The  valley  where  Sandwich  Center  sleeps 
is  encircled  by  the  hills  as  by  a  vast  jeweled 
coronet  of  ever-changing  colors,  purple  and 
rose  and  red  and  gold — Israel,  Black  Moun- 
tain, Sandwich  Dome,  Red  Hill,  Ossipee, 
White -Face,  Paugus,  Passaconaway,  Wonna- 
lancet,  and,  stirring  in  the  distance,  the 
horn  of  Mount  Chocorua.  Mightier  ranges 
tower  to  the  north,  but  none  is  more  strange 
or  beautiful  than  the  mystic  Sandwich  range, 
guardian  of  Asquam  and  Winnepesaukee — 
Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit — of  Bearcamp 
water  and  Lake  Chocorua.  Here  was  the 
beloved  ground  of  Whittier — here,  where 
Indian  legends  float  in  the  breezes.  And 
when  the  little  mists  rise  over  the  mountains, 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  21 

all  the  people  say,  "Look!  the  ghosts  of  the 
Indians  are  abroad  this  morning  on  Ossipee!" 
or  "See, — they  are  smoking  the  pipe  of 
peace  on  Israel!" 

Sweetest  of  all  childlike  dreams 

In  the  simple  Indian  lore, 
Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 

Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff, 
And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 

Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff, 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

— From  The  Vanisbirt. 


#****#-x-  ********** 

*#***-x-  *********** 

*  *   *       *****       *  *   *       *** 

*  *   *   *  *  *  * 


II. 

IN  THE  RED  SUNSET,  CARAVANS 
OF  THE  OLD  DAYS  PASS 

HE  Center's  days  of  business 
and  bustle  have  long  since 
gone.  It  basks  in  the  sun  now, 
and  is  content  to  try  no  more 
climbing  of  mountains.  Some- 
times it  dreams.  In  the  red 
sunset,  caravans  of  the  old  days 
pass.  Down  through  Sandwich  Notch  come 
the  endless  line  of  red  sleds,  drawn  by  oxen 
and  burdened  with  lumber  for  the  building  of 
the  colonial  settlements,  or  laden  with  pines 
for  the  royal  navy.  In  those  years,  the 
New  Hampshire  white  pines  were  stalwart 
trees  standing  high  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
or  more,  and  there  grew  not  one  in  all  that 
Sandwich  region  that  was  not  destined  to 
mast  the  royal  navy,  and  branded  with  the 


24  MIDSUMMER   IN   WHITTIER   S  COUNTRY 

broad  arrow  by  order  of  the  king.  For  a 
settler  to  cut  one  down  was,  under  British 
law,  a  felony  and  punishable  by  a  fine  of  one 
hundred  pounds. 

In  that  time  the  only  roads  through  the 
valley  were  these  old  lumber  trails  and  the 
trails  of  the  Indian,  the  moose,  the  bear  and 
deer.  Prospeftors  surveyed  Sandwich  valley 
nearly  two  centuries  ago  and  built  the  first 
cabins  of  the  village  on  the  wooded  banks  of 
Little  Pond,  near  Lower  Corner.  The  town 
was  granted  by  Colonial  Governor  Went- 
worth  in  1763.  Two  years  later,  according 
to  the  old  Sandwich  records,  Orlando  Weed 
was  granted,  by  vote  of  the  proprietors  at 
Exeter,  seven  hundred  acres,  seventy  pounds 
of  lawful  money  and  seven  cows,  on  con- 
dition that  he  would  settle  seven  families  in 
Sandwich,  and  build  seven  substantial  dwel- 
ling houses,  and  clear  forty  acres  of  land 
within  three  years. 

The  Wentworths  erefted  their  stately 
home  with  columned  portico  and  solid  walls, 
the  old  capitol  of  Sandwich — still  standing  on 
Wentworth  Hill: 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 
The  English  ivy  twines, 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  25 

Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 
The  herald's  carven  signs. 

A  number  of  other  families,  celebrated  in 
early  New  England  history,  settled  in  the 
growing  township;  among  them,  the  French, 
Sherman  and  White  families,  the  last  allied  to 
the  house  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  Peregrine 
White,  the  father  of  Dr.  White  who  settled  in 
Sandwich  in  that  early  period,  was  the  first 
child  born  in  New  England. 

Many  of  the  survivors  of  the  French  and 
Indian  war,  men  of  the  4th  New  Hampshire 
regiment,  migrated  to  the  new  township. 
With  Spartan  law  and  Spartan  courage  the 
daring  little  maiden  town  of  the  wild  hills 
was  builded  to  a  youth  of  activity  and 
strength.  During  the  Revolution  she  sent 
forth  her  sons  to  battle,  gave  them  their 
shields — "return  thou  with  them  or  upon 
them" — and  they  returned  with  them.  In 
the  records  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  a 
Sandwich  regiment  is  honorably  mentioned. 
Meanwhile  a  marriage  with  a  Quaker  hus- 
band brought  forth  new  elements  of  thrift 
and  industry.  Iron  foundries,  brick  kilns, 
sawmills  and  gristmills  were  established,  and 
shoes  and  clothing  manufactured  for  all  the 


26  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER*S  COUNTRY 

country  round.  The  Sandwich  cattle, 
Denmark  breed,  became  noted  in  growing 
New  England,  and  there  were  no  better 
farms  in  all  the  thirteen  states  combined. 
Thus  the  golden  age  of  the  village  came, 
lasted  for  fifty  years — and  went. 

With  the  outbreak  of  the  civil  war,  again 
the  martial  clamor,  the  giving  of  the  shields, 
and  the  Spartan  admonition.  This  time  the 
young  men  came  back  upon  their  shields,  and 
the  mother  village  bowed,  never  to  look  up 
again.  Little  by  little  an  alien  element  crept 
in  and  took  possession  of  the  farms  whose 
younger  masters  had  either  been  killed  or  had 
abandoned  them  for  the  West.  At  the 
present  time  not  more  than  five  families,  de- 
scendants of  the  colonial  settlers,  remain  in 
Sandwich. 

The  village  is  awake  to  things  only  during 
the  summer  months,  and  here  gather  from 
all  the  world  the  dreaming  of  lovers  of  the 
White  Hills. 

A  shallow  stream,  from  fountains 
Deep  in  the  Sandwich  mountains, 

Ran  lakeward  Bearcamp  River; 
And  between  its  flood-torn  shores, 
Sped  by  sail  or  urged  by  oars 

No  keel  had  vexed  it  ever. 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  2  7 

Alone  the  dead  trees  yielding 
To  the  dull  axe  Time  is  wielding, 

The  shy  mink  and  the  otter, 
And  golden  leaves  and  red, 
By  countless  autumns  shed, 

Had  floated  down  its  water. 

From  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 
Came  a  skilled  seafaring  man, 

With  his  dory,  to  the  right  place; 
Over  hill  and  plain  he  brought  her, 
Where  the  boatless  Bearcamp  water 

Comes  winding  down  from  White-Face. 
****** 
On,  where  the  stream  flows  quiet 
As  the  meadows'  margins  by  it, 

Or  widens  out  to  borrow  a 
New  life  from  that  wild  water, 
The  mountain  giant's  daughter, 

The  pine-besung  Chocorua. 

Or,  mid  the  tangling  cumber 
And  pack  of  mountain  lumber 

That  spring  floods  downward  force, 
Over  sunken  snag,  and  bar 
Where  the  grating  shallows  are, 
The  good  boat  held  her  course. 
****** 

So,  to  where  the  still  lake  glasses 
The  misty  mountain  masses 

Rising  dim  and  distant  northward, 
And,  with  faint-drawn  shadow  pictures, 
Low  shores  and  dead  pine  speftres, 

Blends  the  skyward  and  the  earthward. 


28  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIEa's  COUNTRY 

On  she  glided,  overladen, 
With  merry  man  and  maiden 

Sending  back  their  song  and  laughter, — 
While,  perchance,  a  phantom  crew, 
In  a  ghostly  birch  canoe, 

Paddled  dumb  and  swiftly  after! 

And  the  bear  on  Ossipee 
Climbed  the  topmost  crag  to  see 

The  strange  thing  drifting  under; 
And,  through  the  haze  of  August, 
Passaconaway  and  Paugus 

Looked  down  in  sleepy  wonder. 

AH  the  pines  that  o'er  her  hung 
In  mimic  sea-tones  sung 

The  song  familiar  to  her; 
And  the  maples  leaned  to  screen  her, 
And  the  meadow-grass  seemed  greener, 

And  the  breeze  more  soft  to  woo  her. 
****** 
Of  these  hills  the  little  vessel 
Henceforth  is  part  and  parcel; 

And  on  Bearcamp  shall  her  log 
Be  kept,  as  if  by  George's 
Or  Grand  Menan,  the  surges 

Tossed  her  skipper  through  the  fog. 

And  I,  who,  half  in  sadness 
Recall  the  morning  gladness 

Of  life,  at  evening  time, 
By  chance,  onlooking  idly, 
Apart  from  all  so  widely, 

Have  set  her  voyage  to  rhyme. 

— From  Forage  of  the  Jettie. 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  29 

NOTB. — The  picturesquely  situated  Wayside  Inn  at 
West  Ossipee,  N.  H.,  is  now  in  ashes;  and  to  its  former 
guests  these  somewhat  careless  rhymes  may  be  a  not 
unwelcome  reminder  of  pleasant  summers  and  autumns 
on  the  banks  of  the  Bearcamp  and  Chocorua.  To  the 
author  himself  they  have  a  special  interest  from  the 
fact  that  they  were  written,  or  improvised,  under  the 
eye,  and  for  the  amusement  of  a  beloved  invalid  friend 
whose  last  earthly  sunsets  faded  from  the  mountain 
ranges  of  Ossipee  and  Sandwich. — From  Poetical  Works 
of  John  Greenhaf  Wittier.  Riverside  Press.  1888. 


*  *  * 

* 


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*  *  * 


III. 

THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE 
VILLAGE 

"A  music  as  of  household  songs 
Was  in  her  voice  of  sweetness.'1'' 

HLDRED  loves  the  little  apple 
hill  on  the  road  to  Ossipee. 
She  is  not  afraid  to  go  there 
alone  because  there  are  not 
any  witches  there,  like  those 
in  the  old  float  dam.  There 
are  fairies  instead,  and  all  the 
things  for  the  fairies. 

"Look!  This  is  their  brown  bread  all 
ready  for  them, — only  it  got  burned  in  the 
oven,"  Mildred  will  say,  taking  up  a  black- 
eyed  daisy,  "and  oh, —  this  buttercup, — 
this  is  their  pretty  little  butter  dish  full  of 
butter ! ' '  Then  she  will  gather  her  apron 


32  MIDSUMMER   IN   WHITTIER   S  COUNTRY 

full  of  grasses  and  field  flowers  and  bring 
them  to  one  of  her  summer  ladies  under  the 
apple  trees.  Mildred  is  a  little  field  flower 
herself,  with  her  blue  eyes  and  her  light  hair 
and  her  slight,  frail  little  body.  She  is  seven 
years  old, — "  But  I'm  going  to  be  eight, — 
my  mother  says  it !  "  she  cries.  Because 
her  father  drives  the  stage  to  Center  Harbor 
she  is  very  proud,  and  catches  her  breath 
whenever  the  lumbering  old  coach  goes  by 
full  of  the  summer  folk.  When  Maybelle  is 
mad  with  her  she  turns  up  her  nose  and  says 
she  need  not  think  she  is  so  much,  for  a 
tinner  is  much  better  than  a  stage-driver. 
Maybelle' s  father  is  the  tinner  and  she 
is  proud  of  that,  but  when  Charlotte,  the 
twins'  big  sister,  breaks  in  with,  "A  minis- 
ter is  better  than  any,"  the  children  have  not 
a  word  to  say,  for  Charlotte's  father  is  the 
minister. 

Maybelle  often  wears  boy's  blue  overalls 
and  drives  an  old  gray  mare,  hitched  to  a  red 
hay  rake,  out  into  the  fields  and  works  like  a 
farmer  until  sundown.  She  is  as  different 
from  Mildred  and  Dorris  as  high  noon  from 
dawn.  Her  face  is  like  a  rosy  apple.  She 
is  sturdily  built  and  proud  of  her  muscle  and 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  33 

her  long  golden-brown  hair  which  she  wears 
in  two  thick  braids.  Sometimes  she  takes 
Mildred  out  to  the  fields  and  lets  her  ride 
on  the  old  gray  mare.  They  both  talk  of 
the  summer  ladies  then.  Oh!  the  ladies  who 
come  in  the  summer  time!  Some  of  them 
have  pink  ribbons  and  white  dresses  full  of 
beautiful  lace,  and  embroidery  on  their 
petticoats.  Once,  one  of  them  named  Miss 
Florence,  had  six  gold  rings  —  and  she  gave 
Mildred  one  of  them!  That  lady  came 
from  Boston.  Mildred  herself  was  there 
once.  "That  is  a  city,"  she  says,  "chil- 
dren cannot  play  in  the  roads  there.  I  have 
seen  make-believe  people  there; — I  saw  them 
in  the  store  windows.  It  was  there  I  saw 
Santa  Glaus.  He  was  going  down  a  chim- 
ney in  Boston.  Oh,  do  you  know,  there  is 
one  woman  says  Santa  Claus  isn't  so!  She 
is  Mrs.  Hinson, — she  says  it!" 

One  morning,  quite  early,  Mildred  ran  out 
of  her  house  as  the  summer  ladies  passed 
going  up  to  the  apple  hill:  "Oh, —  did  you 
see  the  Gipsies  go  by  this  morning?  Oh  — 
oh — six  waggings  of  them!  But  they  didn't 
get  me!  I  ran!  Oncet  they  got  Tom 
Clark  an'  he  bawled  fer  his  mother  so  they 


34  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

took  him  out  an'  strapped  him  to  a  tree  an' 
Indianed  him  an'  left  him  there ! ' '  (To 
Indian  anyone  in  Sandwich  is  to  black  his 
face  and  hands.) 

Often  at  evening,  sitting  out  on  the  school- 
house  rocks  Mildred  chatters  away  like  a  little 
sparrow:  "I  get  up  in  the  morning  at  seven 
o'clock,  I  pick  up  the  dishes,  then  I  strip  the 
beds  an'  make  them,  then  I  wash  the  dishes 
an'  water  the  hens.  Then  I  swing  in  the 
swinging  chair  with  baby.  In  the  afternoon 
I  play.  I  go  to  Hester's  or  I  play  with 
Maybelle  or  the  twins.  We  play  mothers. 
I  have  six  dolls  an'  a  lounge  bed  an'  a 
cradle.  Then  every  night  I  lock  the  wood- 
house  door.  If  my  mamma  should  say  to 
me,  'Mildred,  you  do  not  have  to  do  your 
chores  to-day,' — I  would  do  them  just  the 
same, — they  help  Papa.  Oh,  yesterday  I 
went  to  Meredith, — I  did!  That  is  the  place 
where  I  was  born.  It  is  a  little  farm.  We 
have, — oh,  a  lot  of  hay  an'  a  big  large  pasture, 
an'  we  let  other  horses  come  in, — we  do." 

Once  Miss  Florence  said  to  Mildred:  "I 
know  such  a  dear  little  girl.  She  lives  in  a 
house  near  me,  and  I  think  she  is  the  best 
of  all." 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  35 

"Oh, — I  know!"  cried  Mildred,  "that 
is  me." 

The  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish  feet 
Have  climbed  the  earliest;  and  the  streams  most  sweet 
Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips  drank 
Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy  bank. 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home's  heart-light 
Shines   round  the  helmsman  plunging  through  the 

night; 

And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller  sees 
In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native  trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  brow  is  nightly  fanned 
By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 
And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying  eye 
The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  childhood  lie. 

— From  Bridal  of  Pennacoolt. 

"fn  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest  cham- 
bers open  to  sunrise  and  to  birds" 

Dorris  looks  at  you, — so — her  deep  eyes 
clear  as  the  waters  of  a  mountain  spring. 
She  puts  her  tiny  little  white  hand  tenderly 
in  yours,  if  she  loves  you,  and  walks  beside 
you  in  the  evening  wherever  you  go,  with- 
out question  and  without  chatter,  silently  and 
superbly  as  a  star.  She  always  takes  Ruth 


36  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

by  the  hand  also  and  if  Marston's  dog  or 
George  Smith's  red  cow  comes  along  the 
road,  Dorris  will  stand  in  front  of  Ruth  to 
protect  her.  Sometimes  the  little  ones, — 
and  they  are  only  just  five  years  old, — will 
come  hand  in  hand  to  a  fence  that  encloses 
summer  boarders  and  look  in  by  the  hour. 
Once  Ruth  and  Dorris  got  lost  in  the  old 
mill  pasture.  That  is  a  lonely  place  at  all 
times, — most  gray  and  dismal, — and  to  be 
lost  there  is  terrible.  They  were  looking  for 
thoroughwort  for  Miss  Mary  Jare,  and  they 
got  off  the  road  little  by  little  and  under  a 
fence  and  off  in  the  hazel  bushes  before 
they  knew  it.  Then  they  were  lost.  All  at 
once,  a  big  gray  building,  hollow  as  a  hollow 
tree,  all  full  of  cracks  and  vines  and  spider 
webs,  came  up  out  of  the  ground.  It  was 
the  haunted  old  grist  mill,  left  alone  even 
when  their  own  mother  was  young.  Stones 
were  piled  up  in  the  old  pasture  as  though  it 
were  a  grave-yard.  One  tree  lay  dead  on 
the  ground.  Five  mullein  stalks,  tall  as 
Ruth  herself,  grew  on  the  rock  mounds.  A 
gray  cloud  had  fallen  over  the  place  long 
ago  and  never  lifted.  But  over  the  broken 
fence  was  a  bright  green  bed  of  brake. 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  37 

Then  a  bell  broke  the  stillness  and  pretty 
soon  it  came  nearer  and  nearer  and  a  pair  of 
terrible,  long,  sharp  horns  tossed  over  the 
brake.  It  was  Smith's  red  cow!  Dorris 
made  Ruth  lie  down  behind  the  stones  and 
she  knelt  in  front  of  her.  There  was  no  way 
to  ever  get  out  any  more.  "Cow  do  not 
come!  Cow  do  not  come!"  Dorris  prayed, 
holding  her  hands  over  Ruth.  The  bushes 
parted  by  the  dry  mill  run.  Dorris  closed  her 
eyes  but  she  did  not  move.  And — it  was  not 
the  cow — it  was  a  lady,  one  of  Dorris' s  own 
summer  ladies  with  paints  and  a  picture. 

"I  will  not  let  the  cow  hurt  Ruth,  my 
little  Dorris,"  she  said,  "she  is  really  a  good 
cow  and  she  does  not  want  to  hook  anybody. 
She  only  wants  to  find  something  to  eat  for 
herself, — but  we  will  go  down  this  way 
across  the  branch.  It  is  not  far  to  your 
home."  Then  the  lady  lifted  them  over 
the  Red  Hill  stream,  and  they  were  in 
Adams'  wheat  field  right  off  and  on  the  side 
of  the  road !  And  the  cow  did  not  get  them 
at  all.  She  just  kept  on  eating. 

"  Bring  us  the  airs  of  hills  and  forests, 
The  sweet  aroma  of  birch  and  pine; 


38  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER*S  COUNTRY 

Give  us  a  waft  of  the  north-wind  laden 
With  sweetbrier  odors  and  breath  of  kine! 

"  Bring  us  the  purple  of  mountain  sunsets, 
Shadows  of  clouds  that  rake  the  hills, 
The  green  repose  of  thy  Plymouth  meadows, 
The  gleam  and  ripple  of  Campton  rills. 

"Lead  us  away  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 

Slaves  of  fancy,  through  all  thy  miles, 
The  winding  ways  of  Pemigewasset, 
And  Winnipesaukee's  hundred  isles. 

"  Shatter  in  sunshine  over  thy  ledges, 

Laugh  in  thy  plunges  from  fall  to  fall; 
Play  with  thy  fringes  of  elms,  and  darken 
Under  the  shade  of  the  mountain  wall. 

' '  The  cradle-song  of  thy  hillside  fountains 
Here  in  thy  glory  and  strength  repeat; 
Give  us  a  taste  of  thy  upland  music, 
Show  us  the  dance  of  thy  silver  feet. ' ' 

"   .    .   .   .    The  sodden  forest  floors 
With  golden  lights  were  checkered" 

The  way  to  the  old  float  dam  begins  not 
far  from  Mildred's  house,  just  back  of  Dr. 
White's  cornfield.  After  leaving  the  corn- 
field and  jumping  a  fence,  there  is  a  little 
space  of  quiet  meadow,  crescent  shaped,  half 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  39 

hidden  by  the  trees  and  full  of  fair  light  gras- 
ses and  sunlit  daisies.  The  pines  withdraw 
their  dark  shadows  far  back.  The  gleaming 
branches  of  a  solitary  white  birch  form  an 
arc  of  light  just  over  the  entrance  into  the 
mysterious  wood,  the  beginning  of  the  long 
trail.  A  log  fallen  over  the  marshy  place, 
just  here,  makes  a  bridge  to  higher  ground. 
Then  but  a  little  while,  and  the  heart  of  the 
pines  beats  fast.  Their  breath  falls  sweetly, 
and  the  ground  underfoot  is  golden-brown 
and  soft  with  spears  of  the  pines,  piled  there 
deep  as  snow  in  the  long  winter.  Only  a 
few  glances  of  the  sky  pierce  the  deep  rich 
green.  Far  darkening  hollows  roll  down 
from  the  trail  off  into  the  maze  of  aisles  and 
tree  columns, —  blue  crypts  of  the  ancient 
cathedral.  In  many  places,  tiny  mushrooms 
gleam  like  pearls  and  opals  dropped  by 
ghostly  queens  of  long  ago.  Indian  pipes, 
cold  in  color  as  old  marble,  lift  their  slender 
shafts  out  of  the  gloom, — mist  arises, — the 
smoke  of  yesterday's  seven  thousand  years. 
So,  through  the  way  of  dreams,  passes  the 
trail.  Then  it  stops.  A  noisome,  brackish 
stream  lies  across  it  like  a  snake  crushed  by  a 
broken  wall  of  cyclopean  rocks,  and  all  be- 


40  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

yond  is  bog  and  mire  and  swamp  bound  in 
by  the  everlasting  pines.  Out  of  the  poison- 
ous marsh  springs  some  strange  wild  flower, 
red  as  blood. 

*    *    * 

"  The  valley  holds  its  breath 

No  leaf  of  all  its  elms  is  twirled" 

A  gray?  shaggy  bowlder  high  on  the  ridge 
of  a  hill, —  one  apple  tree  leaning  near, — 
that  is  Sunset  Rock,  the  nearest  point  to  the 
village  where  a  view  of  all  the  mighty  ranges 
may  be  had  in  one  grand  sweep. 

One  summer  a  solitary  stranger,  some 
sweet-natured  Thoreau,  came  to  Sandwich 
and  pitched  his  tent  in  the  shadow  of  this 
rock.  For  two  weeks  he  camped  there 
speaking  to  no  man,  given  over  to  the  silent 
watch  of  the  great  hills. 

Another  summer  a  young  girl  who  sang, 
often  stood  upon  the  rocks.  Alone  in  the 
twilight  there,  her  blue  dress  like  a  bit  of  the 
dawn  sky,  and  with  arms  outstretched  to  the 
glowing  hills,  she  would  sing  the  love-songs 
of  the  masters — yearning  of  the  ages  ...  in 
sascula  saeculorum. 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  4! 

Once  more,   O  Mountains  of  the  North,  unveil 
Your  brows,  and  lay  your  cloudy  mantles  by! 
And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that  seek  ye  fail, 

Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky 
Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sunshine  weave 
Its  golden  net-work  in  your  belting  woods, 
Smile  down  in  rainbows  from  your  falling  floods, 
And  on  your  kingly  brows  at  morn  and  eve 
Set  crowns  of  fire!      So  shall  my  soul  receive 
Haply  the  secret  of  your  calm  and  strength, 
Your  unforgotten  beauty  interfuse 
My  common  life,  your  glorious  shapes  and  hues 
And  sun-dropped  splendors  at  my  bidding  come, 
Loom  vast  through  dreams,  and  stretch  in  billowy 

length 
From  the  sea-level  of  my  lowland  home! 

They  rise  before  me!     Last  night's  thunder-gust 
Roared  not  in  vain:   for  where  its  lightnings  thrust 
Their  tongues  of  fire,  the  great  peaks  seem  so  near, 
Burned  clean  of  mist,  so  starkly  bold  and  clear, 
I  almost  pause  the  wind  in  the  pines  to  hear, 
The  loose  rock's  fall,  the  steps  of  browsing  deer. 
The  clouds  that  shattered  on  yon  slide-worn  walls 

And  splintered  on  the  rocks  their  spears  of  rain 
Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  waterfalls, 
Making  the  dusk  and  silence  of  the  woods 
Glad  with  the  laughter  of  the  chasing  floods, 
And  luminous  with  blown  spray  and  silver  gleams, 
While,  in  the  vales  below,  the  dry-lipped  streams 

Sing  to  the  freshened  meadow-lands  again. 

— From  Mountain  Pictures. 


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IV. 

I  LEAN  MY  HEART  AGAINST 
THE  DAY" 

" 7  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 
I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours  and  ye  are  mine" 

JOURNAL  of  the  days  runs 
all  to  clouds:  rich  purple  twi- 
light, a  mystery  of  red,  the 
sad,  fading  red  that  glows  and 
burns  against  the  mountains, 
and  lasts  till  all  the  other  sky 
has  grown  dark  arid  full  of 
stars.  .  .  .  Cloud  shadows  over  the  valley, 
rain  on  Sandwich  Dome — white  mist  veiling 
it — low  rain  clouds  breaking  over  it — the  rain 
slanting  down — and — coming — coming  .  .  . 
A  clear,  valiant  blue  sky,  billows  of  snow 
white  clouds  rolling  over  all  the  hills — 
but  over  Ossipee — little  purple  mists  like 


44  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

violets  blowing.  .  .  .  Vast  domes  and  pal- 
aces of  clouds  floating  over  the  mountains 
at  sunset — gold  wings  arising  in  the  twilight 
— long  streamers  of  color, — lavender,  rose 
pink,  old  gold,  edging  the  hills, — then  again 
that  rich,  warm  red,  beating  like  a  great  full 
heart — burning  into  the  night  far  behind  the 
hills.  .  .  .  To-day,  tenderness  and  sweet- 
ness in  the  far,  far  light  blue — dear  with  baby 
clouds.  .  .  .  On  Burleigh  Hill, — a  mighty 
black  cloud  brooding  over  the  sky, — but  to- 
ward the  hills,  light  and  white,  the  far  dis- 
tance, soft  with  mists.  .  .  .  Savage  clouds 
suddenly  gathering, — rolling  dark  and  gray — 
casting  shadows  of  war — through  them  tiny 
little  maiden  skies  trembling — white  veils 
hiding  their  sweet  blue  forms — torn  in  streaks 
by  the  fierce  thunder-heads  leaping  hard  upon 
them — ravishing  them  with  a  fearful  delight. 

"From  ceiled  rooms,  from  silent  books, 

From  crowded  car  and  town, 
Dear  Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  lap 
We  lay  our  tired  heads  down." 


*  *  *  # 

*  *  * 

*  * 


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**  *  ***  *  ** 

*  *  * 


V. 

A  DIARY  OF  THE  HARVEST 
MONTH 

"I  climbed  a  hill  path  strange  and  new 

With  slow  feet  pausing  at  each  turn, — 
A  sudden  waft  of  west  wind  blew 
The  breath  of  the  sweet  fern.'1'' 

—  [August  the  1st. 

FHITE-FACE  to-day!  We  left 
in  the  dim,  cool  mist  just  before 
dawn.  There  were  only  four 
pale  stars  in  the  sky,  and  these 
we  soon  lost  in  the  shadow  of 
Israel.  Long  interminable  veils 
of  mist  hid  the  other  ranges 
and  covered  the  valley.  "There's  rain  on 
White-Face,"  said  our  guide.  But  far  over 
eastward  bloomed  a  gentle  flush  of  rose 
color — so  we  drove  on.  It  was  to  be  one 


46  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

of  the  sun's  blue  days,  however.  He  tried 
to  be  glorious, — but  Aurora  and  her  maidens 
must  have  been  weeping — so  he  was  all  up- 
set. He  came  out  and  went  back  several 
times,  then  finally  he  stayed  with  the  tearful 
maidens.  Thus  the  mist  was  in  nowise 
lifted  when  we  reached  the  wonderful  inter- 
vale at  the  foot  of  the  slide-scarred  mountain. 
After  putting  up  our  teams  in  the  big  barn  of 
a  comfortable  farmhouse,  there,  we  found  the 
trail,  pressed  through  the  thick  growth  of  wet 
hazel  bushes,  and  after  shaping  alpen  stocks, 
we  began  the  ascent.  There  were  two  other 
girls  besides  Alice  and  myself  in  the  party. 
They  were  from  Concord — disciples  of 
Thoreau, — and  they  paused  with  a  quiet 
pleasure  before  every  little  faintly  sketched 
flower,  and  mountain  plant  along  the  misty 
trail.  Two  superb,  active  hours,  mounting 
up  through  the  pines,  struggling  under  fallen 
trees,  scaling  big  bowlders,  going  higher  and 
higher  in  the  fast-gathering  mist,  singing  old 
English  ballads:  "Now  gayly  thro'  the 
mountain  glen,  the  hunter  winds  his  horn ! ' ' 
— then  all  at  once,  shut  in  by  the  cloud — 
hurriedly  gathering  pine  boughs  for  a  tent 
and  stripping  the  giant  birches  for  ponchos 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  47 

and  umbrellas — building  a  fire — watching  the 
smoke  crawl  around  our  shivering  fingers — 
then  suddenly  all  the  skies  opening  and  a 
wild  mad  flood  pouring  down — a  gallop  to 
earth  again — back  to  the  clean  farm  kitchen, 
a  warm  fire  and  good  hot  coffee. 

We  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 

Through  the  rough  northern  country.    We  had  seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 

Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 

Of  Winnepiseogee;  and  had  felt 

The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isles 

Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 

Of  the  bright  waters.     We  had  checked  our  steed*, 

Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 

Is  piled  to  heaven  ;  and,  through  the  narrow  rift 

Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 

Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 

Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 

Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 

Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 

We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 

Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the  sun, 

Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.     We  had  passed 

The  high  source  of  the  Sacoj  and  bewildered 

In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills 

Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding;  and  atop 

Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 


48  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER*S  COUNTRY 

Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and  thick 
As  meadow  mole-hills, — the  far  sea  of  Casco, 
A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east; 
Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills; 
Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and   Kearsarge 
Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun  ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 

Shadowing  the  bank,  whose  grassy  spires  are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 

Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had  tracked 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 

By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 

From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 

Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the  moon 

Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines, 

Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire;  and  its  beams 

At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of  silver 

The  Merrimac  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

—  From  The  Brid.'.l  tf  Pennacotl. 


"  Through  each  branch-envuoven  skylight 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 
Of  lost  Eden's  trees  !  " 

—  [August  the  6th. 

Last  night  I  ran  off  secretly  to  the  Spokes- 
field  Pines.  I  tiptoed  away  from  the  house 
while  everyone  was  sound  asleep,  just  as  the 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  49 

late  moon  was  coming  up  over  the  hills.  I 
hurried  along  the  white  road  by  the  silent 
houses.  Marstan's  dog  barked  furiously  at 
me,  but  no  one  woke  up  and  I  came  safely 
to  the  last  house  of  the  village.  This  was 
beyond  the  old  Burleigh  Inn,  and  a  light  was 
in  one  of  the  front  rooms.  Old  Susan  Wil- 
ley  was  still  sewing  carpet  rags!  My  heart 
trembled  as  I  left  the  light.  I  felt  as  though 
I  were  about  to  enter  into  some  terrible  but 
sweet  adventure, — some  divine  rendezvous! 
After  vaulting  the  fence  just  beyond  the  old 
pump  I  struck  the  trail,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment was  shrouded  in  the  darkness  of  the 
pines.  Shadows  have  such  a  fearful  delight. 
I  lay  in  them  until  I  was  too  frightened  to 
get  up.  There  was  a  strange  shape  in  front 
of  me  that  seemed  to  move.  After  a  long 
while — it  seemed  hours — I  thrust  out  my 
hands, — and  touched — a  blackberry  briar 
swaying  in  the  wind  over  an  old  stump.  I 
drew  closer  and  I  saw  it  was  the  very  stump 
whose  rings  we  had  counted  last  Wednesday. 
The  tree  had  but  recently  fallen.  Dr. 
Wiggin  used  a  magnifying  glass  to  get  the 
records  and  we  found  that  it  was  five  hundred 
years  old.  In  certain  parts  of  the  Spokesfield 


JO  MIDSUMMER   IN   WHITTIER    S  COUNTRY 

woods  the  pines  are  grouped  in  curiously  har- 
monious lines.  As  things  became  more  dis- 
tinft  I  could  follow  this  fine  grouping  and 
the  fantastic  play  of  the  light. 

Hark! — is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among? — 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung? — 
Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 
Listening  to  earn  sound  they  go 
Round  the  columns  of  the  pine, 

Indistinct,  in  shadow,  seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine} 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column's  branching  head, 
For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 

In  the  pine-leaves  fine  and  small, 

Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wall! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound! 

— From  Mogg  Mtgent. 

I  stretched  myself  out  full  length  on  the 
pine  needles  and  breathed  in  the  cool  fresh- 
ness and  looked  up  long  through  the  pine 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  5  I 

boughs.  I  wished  for  more  stars.  I  thought 
of  a  girl  I  had  met  once  five  years  before, 
from  far  up  in  Duluth,  one  who  had  slept  in 
the  pines  along  the  great  lake  shore,  who  had 
spoken  to  me  of  the  large  stars  before  dawn, 
of  the  song  of  the  pines  and  the  breath 
of  the  pines.  I  saw  her  walking  in  the 
shadows  with  her  pale  face  upturned,  and  I 
knew  now,  at  last,  how  she  had  felt  in  the 
pines. 

I  counted  the  sounds  I  heard.  A  cock 
crew  way  off  somewhere.  A  dog  barked, 
an  owl  hooted  and  a  sleepless  squirrel  dropped 
an  acorn  at  my  feet.  It  made  such  a  loud 
noise  I  jumped.  Then  I  lay  quiet  again.  I 
marked  the  swift  changes  of  the  moonlight 
on  the  black  trunks  of  the  pines  and  in  their 
lofty  boughs,  the  fast  traveling  and  checkered 
glow  on  the  soft,  clean  ground  and  the  long 
mellow  sweeps  of  light. 

Then  I  wrapped  my  coat  tightly  about  me 
and  slept  long  in  the  song  of  the  pines. 
*   *    * 

"All  through  the  long  bright  days  of  June 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair." 


52  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

— [August  the  loth. 

On    Rock    Maple    Ridge  to-day 

"First,  a  lake,  tinted  with  sunset;  next  the 

waving  lines  of  far  receding  hills," 

the  might  and  majesty  of  Israel, — then  all  at 
once  a  glory  of  golden  wheat  on  the  very 
crest  of  the  steep  hill,  waving  like  hair  in  the 
wind,  shining  like  hair  in  the  sun — a  wonder 

past  the  telling One  dwarf-like  old 

man,  wrinkled  and  long  bearded,  bent  double 
over  his  scythe, — Hagen  stealing  the  gold 
from  the  Rhine  maidens. 

"Somewhere  it  laughed  and  sang;  somewhere 
Whirled  in  mad  dance  its  misty  hair, 
But  -who  had  raised  its  veil,  or  seen 
The  rainbow  skirts  of  that  Undine  ?  " 

—  [August  the  1 5th. 

To-day  we  drove  to  Beedis'    Falls, — the 
wonder  road  through  Sandwich  Notch: 

"  The  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees 
Wound  through  its  meadows  green; 
A  long  blue  line  of  mountains  showed 
The  open  pines  between. 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  53 

"One  sharp,  tall  peak  above  them  all 

Clear  into  sunlight  sprang, 
I  saw  the  river  of  my  dreams, 
The  mountains  that  I  sang." 

At  the  place  where  we  stopped  first  the 
water  flowed  quietly  over  a  great  wide  sweep 
of  solid  rock.  Wading  was  slippery  but  full 
of  delight.  I  dropped  all  my  petticoats  and 
letting  fly  my  hair  I  leaped,  feeling  like  a 
deer,  down  over  to  the  smaller  rocks  where 
the  water  began  to  tumble  and  I  could  be 
drenched  in  its  tossing  spray.  Flashes  of 
the  sunlight  warmed  my  wet  legs  and  arms, 
and  1  danced  every  wild  step  I  knew, — 
feeling  so  free  and  glorious: 

"The  leaves  through  which  the  glad  winds  blew 
Shared  the  wild  dance  the  waters  knew; 
And  where  the  shadows  deepest  fell, 
The  wood-thrush  rang  his  silver  bell. 

"Fringing  the  stream  at  every  turn, 
Swung  low  the  waving  fronds  of  fern; 
From  stony  clefts  and  mossy  sod, 
Pale  asters  sprang,  and  golden-rod. 

"The  turquoise  lakes,  the  glimpse  of  pond 
And  river  track,  and,  vast,  beyond 
Broad  meadows  belted  round  with  pines 
The  grand  uplift  of  mountain  lines!" 


54  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER  S  COUNTRY 

Against  the  wooded  hills  it  stands, 

Ghosts  of  a  dead  home,  staring  through 

Its  broken  lights  on  wasted  lands 
Where  old-time  harvests  grew. 

Unploughed,  unsown,  by  scythe  unshorn, 
The  poor,  forsaken  farm-fields  lie, 

Once  rich  and  rife  with  golden  corn 
And  pale  green  breadths  of  rye. 

Of  healthful  herb  and  flower  bereft, 
The  garden  plot  no  housewife  keeps; 

Through  weeds  and  tangle  only  left, 
The  snake,  its  tenant,  creeps. 

A  lilac  spray,  still  blossom-clad, 

Sways  slow  before  the  empty  rooms; 

Beside  the  roofless  porch  a  sad 
Pathetic  red  rose  blooms. 

His  track,  in  mould  and  dust  of  drouth, 
'  On  floor  and  hearth  the  squirrel  leaves, 
And  in  the  fireless  chimney's  mouth 
His  web  the  spider  weaves. 

The  leaning  barn,  about  to  fall, 

Resounds  no  more  on  husking  eves: 

No  cattle  low  in  yard  or  stall, 
No  thresher  beats  his  sheaves. 

So  sad,  so  drear!      It  seems  almost 

Some  haunting  Presence  makes  its  sign; 

That  down  yon  shadowy  lane  some  ghost 
Might  drive  his  spectral  kine! 

From  The  Homtitetd. 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  55 

— [August  the  aoth. 

Yesterday  Alice  and  I  drove  along  by 
Israel  by  way  of  the  old  stage  road.  We 
passed  a  dingy  farm  house  where  the  old 
people  were  left  alone.  A  quaintly  fashioned 
letter  box  had  been  put  up  years  before  in 
front  of  their  house, — when  their  only  son 
went  west.  Every  day  when  the  stage 
passed  they  watched  for  a  letter.  Finally 
two  robins  built  a  nest  in  the  little  box. 
Every  spring  they  came  back;  no  letter  has 

ever    disturbed  them We  came  to 

another  farm  house  deserted  and  forlorn,  a 
haunted  place,  far  in  the  fields.  Israel  has 
many  such.  It  broods  over  them  gloomily, 
but  the  highland  roads  laugh  in  its  grave  face 
and  run  carelessly  by  the  abandoned  homes 
of  its  lost  children.  It  was  warm  yesterday; 
a  drowsy  sense  even  in  those  gay  roads: — 
O,  the  charm  of  their  sleep  on  the  breasts  of 
the  maiden  flowers ! 

"Along  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  gold 
That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden-rod. 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal  flowers 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves. 
The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 


56  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER*S  COUNTRY 

Wing-weary  with  its  long  flight  from  the  south, 
Unfelt;  yet,  closely  scanned  yon  maple  leaf 
With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in  dreams, 
Confesses  it.      The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  noon  silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep  on  the 
load's  top. 


"Against  the  neigbhoring  hill, 
Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
The  sheep  snow  white,  as  if  a  snowdrift, 
Defied  the  dog-star.      Through  the  open  door 
A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers, — gay  heliotrope, 
And  white  sweet  clover,  and  shy  mignonette — 
Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 

So  we  drove  and  we  drove,  Alice  and  I. 
We  followed  the  roads  as  the  flowers  did, 
we  embraced  them,  we  adored  them, — and 
we  did  not  blame  a  single  little  aster!  It 
was  dark  when  we  turned  homeward, — 
"How  those  clouds  low  down  turn  to  moun- 
tains," said  Alice,  "and  the  pastures  stretch 
off  smooth  into  space.  Look, — the  mist 
sweeping  up  from  the  valley  over  Israel.  .  ." 
Then  we  watched  the  stars  come  out.  With 
half-closed  eyes  we  watched  the  mystic  fair- 
ness of  the  hills — those  brides  of  the  night- 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  57 

clouds  and  the  stars — adorning  themselves  for 
their  sweet  bridegrooms. 

"How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem, 
Dim-looking  through  the  pale,  still  light; 
The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night." 

*    *    * 

—  [August  the  3oth. 

To-day, — to-day, — all  day  under  the 
apple  trees!  A  big  white  cloud  luminous 
with  light  arising  over  the  sloping  gray  roof — 
all  the  sky  a  clear  and  serene  blue — apples 
shining  on  the  trees, — mellow, — full  of 
sweet  fruit-smell, — the  sad  leaves  closing 
around  them  tenderly — holding  them  fast, — 
knowing  their  loss  is  coming 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.      Still  and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at  our  back; 
And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering  day 
On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 

The  brown  old  farm-house  like  a  bird's-nest  hung. 
With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was  stirred: 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we  heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet  well, 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed;  the  gate 
Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the  merry  weight 


50  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER  S  COUNTRY 

Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they  swung, 

The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane,  in  tinklings  clear, 
The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow-bell  rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our  backward  path  we  took, 
Praising  the  farmer's  home.      He  only  spake, 
Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 

Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off  is  most  near: 
"Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant  look; 
I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 
Who  lived  and  died  here  in  the  peace  of  God!" 

— Frcm  Mountain  Picturti. 


********************* 
********************* 

*  *  *       *  *  *       *****       ***       *** 
**  *  ***  *  ** 

*  *  * 

VI. 

INDIAN  LEGENDS  FLOAT  IN 
THE  BREEZES 

I.  OSSIPEE 

"Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  there  be, 

Who  ply  unseen  their  shadowy  lines, 
Call  back  the  ancient  name  to  thee 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines!'1'' 

ALTHOUGH  Israel  is  mighty 
and  much  beloved,  Ossipee 
sings  to  the  heart  with  the 
woman's  love-song.  Its  fair 
brow,  gold-crowned,  the  rising 
sunlit  dome,  like  the  one  burn- 
ing breast  of  an  Amazon  girl, — 
the  grace  of  its  long,  firm  lines, — the  sweet- 
ness of  the  little  clouds, — its  winged  chil- 
dren— playing  over  it, — then  the  transparent 
blushing  wonder  of  it  when  the  twilight 
falls.  . 


60  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

Long  ago,  so  the  stories  say,  an  ocean  of 
pines  swept  the  vast  hill  from  base  to  dome; 
the  very  name  in  the  Indian  tongue  meant 
Mountain  of  the  Pines,  and  it  was  the 
Indian  symbol  of  the  ideal. 

The  Ossipee  Falls  are  the  Falls  of  the 
Song  of  the  Pines.  Some  say  that  late  in 
November  a  plaintive  note  is  heard  here. 
That  is  the  last  cry  of  an  Indian  brave  of  the 
Pequaket  tribe.  He  took  up  arms  against 
John  Chamberlain,  the  slayer  of  Paugus, 
the  great  chief,  and  he  pursued  him  over  the 
valleys  from  Winnepesaukee  to  Ossipee  Falls. 
The  pale-face  leaped  the  falls, — the  very 
spot  is  pointed  out  to-day, — but  the  Indian 
fell  in  his  haste,  and  perished  in  the  foaming 
waters, — and  his  ghost  has  haunted  the  place 
ever  since.  .  .  .  white  sprays  of  the  restless 
waters,  mist  of  dreams. 


The  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hills!  where,  cool  and  sweet 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie! 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  6 1 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked  down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God.  .  .  . 

— From  Tht  Lakeside. 

*     *     * 


II.   ASQUAM 

" Before  me,  stretched  for  glistening  miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam; 
Like  green-winged  birds,  the  leafy  isles 
Upon  its  bosom  swam." 

And,  glimmering  through  the  sun-haze  warm, 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon's  northern  line. 


62  MIDSUMMER   IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

There  towered  Chocorua's  peak;  and  west, 

Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 
With  many  a  nameless  slide-scarred  crest 

And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 

And  awful  face  of  stone  ! 

—From  The  Hill-Tof. 

The  little  lake  Asquam,  meaning  the  beau- 
tiful-surrounded-by-water-place,  is  very  fair. 
Like  most  inland  waters  it  is  crystal  clear, 
reflecting  minutely  every  change  and  tinge  of 
color  of  the  clouds  and  trees  and  sky.  It  is 
only  two  miles  beyond  Sandwich  on  the 
road  under  the  red  oaks  and  maples  of  Red 
Hill  to  Centre  Harbor.  It  is  not  big,  like 
Winnepesaukee,  but  it  is  even  more  charming. 
The  graceful  curves  of  its  shore  lines,  the 
miniature  islands  rocking  on  its  waters,  and 
the  mists  arising  at  dawn  and  evening  take 
possession  of  every  sense. 

The  Indian  myth  that  lies  sleeping  on  the 
waters'  breast  wakes  only  in  a  fierce  thunder 
storm  at  night,  when  the  curse  of  old 
Wamego  flashes  in  the  lightning;  the  moaning 
of  Suneta  haunts  the  valley  for  miles  around, 
and  the  love  song  of  Anonis  yearns  far  in 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  63 

the  lonely  hills.  Long  ago,  the  legend  says, 
an  old  Indian  chief,  the  ugly  Wamego, 
whose  squaw  had  died,  lived  on  the  shores 
of  'Squam.  Suneta,  the  daughter  of  a 
neighboring  chief,  was  sold  to  him  by  her 
father,  although  she  was  pledged  to  Anonis, 
a  brave  of  her  own  tribe.  The  marriage 
feast  with  the  ugly  chief  was  celebrated. 
Before  many  moons  had  passed,  however, 
when  one  night  the  old  Wamego  lay  sleeping 
heavily,  Suneta  heard  her  lover's  voice: 

"  Come!   The  night  is  dark  and  stormy, 
My  canoe  is  on  the  lake. 
My  beloved!   I  cannot  live  without  you. 
You  are  mine! 

Death  awaits  me  tonight  if  I  bear  you  not 
away  in  mine  arms!  " 

Suneta  sprang  to  him  and  they  fled  through 
the  shadows.  Wamega  awoke,  followed 
them  and  caught  them.  With  his  tomahawk 
he  killed  Anonis,  and  lifting  up  his  voice  over 
the  fainting  Suneta,  cried,  "May  fire  blast 
her!  Let  the  Manitou  make  of  her  an 
example  to  coming  time!"  A  flash  of 
lightning  and  a  savage  growl  of  thunder 
replied  to  his  words.  The  body  of  Suneta 
was  turned  to  stone, — circle  of  the  sighing 


64  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

wind,  miserere, — the  ever  living  Frances  ca 
and  Paoli!  To-day  all  the  people  who  come 
to  Asquam  may  look  upon  the  rock  so 
strangely  carven  in  a  woman's  form,  sad, 
disconsolate  on  the  far  side  of  the  lake : 
"Mat  wonck  kunna-monee ! "  it  is  said. 
And  the  song  of  the  Indian  women  in  The 
Bridal  of  Pennacook  is  remembered. 

The  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown} 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 

The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died  on  our  shore: 
Mat  ivonck  kunna-monee!     We  hear  it  no  more! 

O  dark  water  Spirit! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave; 

Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore: 
Mat  iuonck  kunna-monee!     We  see  her  no  more! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told: 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 

Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore: 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee!     We  see  her  no  more! 


O  mighty  Sovvanna! 
Thy  gateways  unfold, 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  65 

From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold! 

Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey  is  o'er: 
Mat  ivonck  kunna-monec!     We  see  her  no  more! 

— From  Tbt  Bridal  of  Pennactak. 


III.   CHOCORUA 

"Part  thy  blue  lips,  Northern  Lake! 
Moss-grown  rocks  your  silence  break! 

Tell  the  tale  thou  ancient  tree! 

Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee! 
Speak  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  King  of  men!  " 

The  mountain  of  all  mountains  around 
Sandwich  is  Chocorua,  the  Prophet's  Tomb. 
It  is  known  far  and  wide  beyond  any  other 
of  the  White  Hills,  save  Mount  Washington 
alone,  and  it  is  loved  far  more  than  any 
other.  Even  children  may  climb  Chocorua, 
and  its  story  is  a  tale  told  at  the  New  England 
firesides  in  the  long  winter,  even  as  the  story 
of  the  Black  Douglas  stirred  the  Scottish 
hearts  of  long  ago.  Chocorua  was  a  chief 
of  the  Ossipee  tribe.  He  was  afraid  of 
nothing.  He  fought  in  many  battles  with 
the  white  men  to  keep  the  home  and  the 


66  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER*S  COUNTRY 

hunting  ground  of  his  people.  But  the 
settlers  and  the  soldiers  were  too  strong  for 
him.  The  Ossipee  tribe  was  driven,  foot  by 
foot,  over  the  border  into  Canada.  Cho- 
corua  and  a  handful  of  braves  remained. 
They  established  their  stronghold  on  a  name- 
less mountain  where  roamed  the  bears  and 
the  deer.  The  colony  of  Massachusetts 
offered  many  pounds  of  silver  for  scalps  of 
the  Indians.  Thus,  for  blood  money,  one 
by  one,  Chocorua's  men  were  killed.  The 
long  winter  came  and  Chocorua  was  left 
alone.  For  many  months  no  white  man 
dared  go  near  the  nameless  mountain  for 
very  dread.  But  when  the  spring  awoke  and 
the  white  ramparts  of  snow  fell  from  Cho- 
corua's fort,  every  pass  into  the  forest  there 
was  guarded  and  a  hundred  men  assembled 
to  hunt  down  the  fierce  chieftain.  He 
retreated  farther  and  farther  up  the  mountain, 
pressed  on  by  his  enemies,  until  at  last  he 
reached  the  peak,  that  sharp  tower  rock,  like 
a  leaning  battlement  in  the  sky.  His  arrows 
were  gone;  death  or  capture  was  before  him. 
With  folded  arms  he  stood  silent  on  the 
peak.  A  bullet  whistled  by  him.  Then  he 
lifted  up  his  voice  in  a  prophecy  of  woe  to 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  67 

the  white  man's  land,  of  sickness  to  the 
cattle,  of  death  to  the  young  men.  He 
sang  the  cry  of  the  abandonment  of  the  land, 
then  he  plunged  into  the  dark  sea  of  mist 
and  pines  three  thousand  feet  below.  The 
mountain  was  named  his  brave  name.  It  is 
graven  there  for  evermore. 

A  huge  gray  bowlder  lies  to-day  under  a 
giant  birch  not  far  from  the  Half-Way 
House  of  Chocorua: 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garb  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 


'Tis  done:   the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent, 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place, 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace  5 

O,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head, 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 

In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 

Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 


68  MIDSUMMER  IN  WHITTIER's  COUNTRY 

O  peeled  and  hunted  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child! 

—  From  Funeral  Tree  of  the  Seittii. 

"Yes, — dees  be  ze  place  where  Shocoruay 
be  buried,"  says  old  "Dutch"  Liberty, 
keeper  of  the  Half- Way  House,  "dees  be  ze 
place!"  Liberty  is  a  French-Canadian  by 
birth  but  he  has  been  in  New  Hampshire 
beyond  folks'  counting,  and  by  Carroll 
County  logic,  since  it  be  not  English  that  he 
speaks,  he  must  be  a  Dutchman.  He  is  at 
any  rate  an  industrious  toll  gatherer.  He 
knows  by  natural  instinct  every  foot  of  the 
ground  Chocorua  trod,  and  even  as  the 
guides  of  Holyrood,  he  too  can  point  out 
drops  of  blood  along  the  trail  and  can  speak 
the  very  words  of  Chocorua' s  curse. 

"Zen  ze  cattle  zey  die  by  one,  by  two, 
by  ze  hunder, — all  from  Shocoruay' s  curse." 
But  Mrs.  Liberty  shakes  her  head  mildly, 
"That  be,  so  I  hear,  on  account  of  too 
much  lime  in  the  water.  They  gave  the 
cattle  soapsuds  an'  they  was  cured.  But 
when  I  merried  Liberty  an'  come  up  here 
on  the  mountain  ter  live,  scarce  a  body  would 
plant  foot  on  Shocoruay.  That  be  thirty 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH  CENTER  69 

years  ago  come  next  August,  an'  here  we  be 
still." 

Mrs.  Liberty  is  of  Quaker  blood  and 
Quaker  gentleness.  Her  eyes  are  blue,  and 
her  hair  a  soft,  waving  white.  Her  face  is 
fine  and  in  spite  of  her  sixty  odd  years,  fresh 
and  rosy  in  coloring,  and  her  bearing  stately 
and  ereft.  On  sunny  afternoons  she  sits  for 
hours  on  the  steps  of  the  Half- Way  House, 
knitting  little  presents  for  her  friends,  the 
visitors  to  Chocorua.  She  brings  them 
glasses  of  mountain  water  and  looks  to  their 
comfort  in  many  ways. 

The  Half-Way  House  is  just  a  rough 
three-roomed  shack  made  of  pine  boards. 
Red  calico  curtains  are  tacked  across  the 
windows  and  scarlet  geraniums  in  old  tomato 
cans  bloom  on  the  pine  window  sills.  Moun- 
tain air  and  the  scent  of  the  balsam  fir  fill  the 
bare,  clean,  little  rooms.  From  the  front 
door  the  hill  descends,  past  the  corral  for  the 
tourists'  teams,  far  down  into  the  white  birch 
belt.  The  incline  is  steep  from  the  rear  of 
Half- Way  House.  A  silver  trout  stream 
tumbles  down  the  hill  as  though  it  were 
going  to  run  straight  into  the  back  door 
of  the  little  house,  but  it  takes  a  sharp 


JO  MIDSUMMER   IN  WHITTIER   S  COUNTRY 

turn  to  the  right  just  where  the  Liberty  trail 
begins. 

"Be  you  goin'  ter  climb  Shocoruay  to- 
day?" Mrs.  Liberty  asks.  "It  be  blowing 
strong  on  the  peak  to-day,  but  there's  fifteen 
gone  before  ye.  But  they  ain't  done  fixin' 
the  teams  yet  so  you  kin  set  awhile  with  me. 
Be  I  lonely?  Wa'al  yes,  there  aint  never  a 
soul  comes  near  Shocoruay  long  in  the 
winter,  an'  me  an'  Liberty,  we  jest  sets  here, 
an'  does  our  chores,  an'  sets  here.  I  say 
to  myself  'God  hev  set  me  down  here  on 
Shocoruay,  an'  here  to  stay;'  an'  I  prays  ter 
Him  an'  takes  my  lot.  T'aint  so  hard 
when  you  come  to  think.  We  got  potatoes 
yonder  an'  flour  in  the  shack,  an'  bacon 
enough  ter  last,  an'  thar  be  plenty  of  wood 
for  fire,  an'  t'aint  so  cold  about  here  as  'tis 
in  other  places.  It  be  cold  enough  though, 
an'  never  a  livin'  body;  but  along  about 
Spring,  though,  all  that's  changed,  an* 
friends  begin  ter  come,  an'  keep  a  comin' 
till  Oftober  sets  in.  I'd  rather  be  here 
than  on  the  farm.  Sometimes  me  an'  Lib- 
erty we  shets  up  the  Half- Way  House  an* 
goes  to  the  farm,  but  it  is  about  the  same 
wherever  we  goes.  Liberty  an*  me  made 


A   LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  7  I 

the  trail  up  Shocoruay, — yes,  there  be  other 
trails,  but  they  be  full  of  harricanes.  It 
keeps  Liberty  an*  me  workin'  ter  keep  the 
trail  in  shape,  an'  this  be  the  only  one  folks 
travel  on  much.  The  folks  come  from  all 
parts — all  over  the  world  ter  see  Shocoruay. 
There  be  one  old  lady  my  age  gone  up  there 
to-day — there  be  a  good  many  old  ladies  hev 
climbed  Shocoruay.  You'll  take  notice  of 
the  one  gone  up  to-day  maybe.  She  has  on 
spectacles  an'  wears  a  cape  with  a  red  plaid 
lining — I  reckon  you'll  see  her.  Then 
there's  some  comes  from  Boston  every  sum- 
mer an'  New  York.  Everybody  knows 
about  Shocoruay,  though  I  can't  say  as  I  see 
much  ter  it — Shocoruay  be  Shocoruay." 

In  all  the  Sandwich  region  so  stirring  with 
melodies  of  clouds  and  birds,  children, 
flowers  and  pines,  and  lakes  and  hills,  there 
is  no  chord  more  majestic,  more  sublime 
than  this, — Chocorua!  At  first  tenderly,  as 
though  to  music  in  minor  key,  in  piercing 
sweet — the  young  trail  leaves  the  glowing 
stream  beyond  the  Half-Way  House,  and 
steps  into  the  fast  vanishing  zone  of  the 
white  birches.  Embraced  by  the  pale, 
slender  arms  of  those  fairy  trees,  shadowed 


72  MIDSUMMER  IN   WHITTIER.'s  COUNTRY 

in  long  arches  of  green  leaves,  it  lingers 
pleasantly — and  sadly — for  a  mile  or  more. 
Then  it  dips  low  down  into  a  stony  hollow, 
wet  underfoot  for  a  space,  then  mounts 
sharply  up  with  sturdy  strength  into  the 
black  belt  of  the  pines.  Streams  of  water, 
myriads  of  them,  spring  from  the  mysterious 
rocks,  and  dance  down  the  steep  descent  like 
water  sprites.  Like  slender  white  threads 
they  curve  down  under  the  traveler's  feet 
and  wind  off  into  the  deep  forest — magic 
ways  to  Fair  Rosamond.  Enchanters  appear 
in  the  shape  of  wonderful  vistas,  now  far 
ahead  or  far  back  or  to  right  or  left,  to  lure 
the  pilgrim  off  the  trail.  But  Chocorua's 
summit  is  on  ahead — the  donjon  tower — 
and  a  view  of  the  mighty  keep  itself,  Mount 
Washington,  and  all  the  walls  and  battle- 
ments and  towers  and  turrets  of  the  great 
castled  land.  Off  to  the  south  the  vast 
moat — waters  of  Winnepesaukee — will  glow; 
again,  in  the  heart  of  the  valley,  Sandwich 
Village  and  all  her  little  sister  towns  will  be 
seen  in  their  quiet  sleep,  while  far  off,  miles 
beyond  the  hundred  lakes,  far  across  the 
country  a  long  pale  line  will  stretch — the 
coast  of  Maine  dim  in  the  mist  of  the  sea. 


A  LITTLE  STUDY  OF  SANDWICH   CENTER  73 

Though  the  promise  is  fair  and  rich,  the 
hillside  is  a  wonderful  thing  —  and  hard  to 
leave.  It  is  a  dreamer,  savage  and  poetical 
—  voice  of  the  dying  Moses  murmuring  low, 
precious  things  to  the  everlasting  hills. 

The  way  grows  steep  and  bare.  The 
pines  are  dwarfs,  the  rocks  are  giants.  The 
earth  begins  to  recede;  the  promise  is  about 
to  be  fulfilled.  The  regions  of  the  sky  are 
here.  With  a  very  trumpet's  blast,  the  wild 
wind  charges  down,  armored  in  black  rocks, 
with  boughs  of  the  leaning  pines  his  lance  and 
battle  axe,  spray  of  the  green  pine  his  bright 
pennon  —  over  all,  white  plumage  of  the 
clouds  —  laugh  of  Die  Walkure. 

The  joust  is  on  —  the  tournament  of  rocks 
and  wind  and  sky. 

Laissez  aller! 

A  valiant  step  upward  —  a  shouting  in  the 
very  air  —  behold  the  peak,  Chocorua! 

[THE  END] 


*    *    * 
* 


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